


After the Storm

by ideserveyou



Category: Arthur of the Britons
Genre: Angst, Grief, M/M, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-16
Updated: 2011-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ideserveyou/pseuds/ideserveyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kai is grieving for his murdered Saxon friend</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Set just after the episode 'The Prisoner'.

The longhouse is very quiet with only two of us.

 

I raise my cup and take a swig of mead; break off a piece of bread and put it in my mouth, although I am not hungry.

I just want an excuse not to have to be the first to speak.

Llud sits opposite me at the table, his brow furrowed, passing his empty cup back and forth between his silver hand and his good one. I don’t think he slept at all last night. Certainly on the three or four occasions that I awoke from the evil dreams that plagued me, he was sitting on the bench staring into the embers of the fire, or pacing the floor restlessly.

And now we are breaking our fast, together and yet far apart, neither quite knowing how to broach the subject that is uppermost in both our minds.

 

Kai.

 

He did not come home last night; and neither of us can bear to go to look for him, in case we discover that he has decided not to come home at all…

As if in answer to my thoughts, the door swings open, letting in a rush of morning sunshine, and to my immense relief, there is Kai, pale and drawn and silent, hesitating on the threshold as though unsure of his welcome.

Llud has his back to the door; but he must have seen the joy on my face, for he turns round; then he gets up abruptly and says, too loudly, ‘I need to go and check on those sentries.’He pushes past Kai, who turns, half-minded to follow. I find I am on my feet and already half-way across the room; I take a couple of swift strides and lay a hand on my brother’s arm. ‘Leave him,’ I say mildly. ‘He’s had a bad night.’  
Kai turns back to me, and I see his face, and try to stop my heartbreak from showing in my own, as I draw him towards the hearth, saying ‘And so have you, by the look of it.’

He is shivering, and his hand is icy cold as it meets mine. He has been out all night without a cloak, and it’s still very early summer, and chilly when the sun goes down. Too chilly to be standing still, certainly… I swing the heavy fur from my own shoulders and wrap it around him; lead him to the bench; put more wood on the fire.

I gesture to the food on the table, but he shakes his head.

The silence grows between us until I can bear it no longer.

 

‘What happened?’ I ask softly.

His shoulders heave as he draws breath; his voice is hoarse and he cannot meet my gaze as he asks, ‘Didn’t Mark tell you?’

‘Hah.’ I give a bitter laugh. ‘Mark came back here with his tail between his legs like a whipped cur. Stayed long enough to tell me that the Saxon was dead and you weren’t, no thanks to him; then couldn’t get out of my house fast enough.’

He is silent again, staring into the fire. His eyes are red-rimmed and hollow. After a little while he says:

‘Roland.’

‘What?’

‘Roland,’ he repeats, in a taut voice that I can barely hear. ‘His name was Roland…’  
‘He saved your life,’ I say, crossing to the table to pour a cup of mead. ‘I owe his spirit a debt of gratitude.’  
But my Kai is not hearing me: ‘…and mine was Bret,’ he continues. He is in some dark place of his own, where all that exists is grief and regret and hopeless longing.

I don’t know how to reach him.

‘I prefer Kai,’ I tell him warmly, pressing the cup into his hand. I have to help him to drink, he is shivering so hard.

‘I built a pyre,’ he says, and now he looks at me, and his eyes are pleading with me for understanding, but I don’t know what he is trying to tell me. ‘And I kept vigil…’

‘That was fitting,’ I reply, wishing we could break through this frozen courtesy and warm each other’s hearts; but I have no idea where to begin.

I take the empty cup away; as I set it down on the table he says harshly, ‘Why did you not come? Why?’

The raw pain in his voice tears at my heart.

He kept vigil: stood there by his childhood friend’s pyre all night. Alone. I let him – made him – do this alone.

 

Oh, Kai.

 

My throat is tight as I answer him. ‘I thought you would be too angry with me.’

He shakes his head, as though to clear it. ‘I thought it must be your anger keeping you away –’

‘I am not angry with you, Kai.’ It hurts to say his name. His Celtic name; the name that belongs to my brother. The one who is dearest of all to me. Perhaps I should tell him so. Bring him back to me with sweet words. He does not often hear them from me…

But I have no idea where to begin with that, either.

He is shaking his head again. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he says stubbornly.

‘No.’ I go back to him; shove him up the bench a little, and sit beside him, pressed close against his rigid side. ‘Not angry. Somewhat hurt, maybe. You could and should have trusted me with the truth. But you had a hard choice to make; and in your place I might very well have done the same.’

He heaves a huge sigh, and leans on me; I can’t help putting an arm around him. He shudders, and resists, but I hold him in a firm grip, and little by little I feel the tension ebb from his body, until finally he surrenders and rests his head wearily on my shoulder. His hair smells of woodsmoke and sweat as I put up a hand to stroke it.

‘Llud’s angry with you, though,’ I tell him.

He sighs again. ‘I know. He’s right to be. He didn’t bring us up to lie to him…’ His voice tails off.

‘He’ll come round,’ I reassure him. ‘Talk to him later, and explain how it was. He’ll understand.’

I do not tell him that last night, as we rode back to the longhouse after leaving him with his Saxon friend, our father was as near to tears as I have ever seen him.

Kai makes a choking sound, and I realise he’s weeping. He struggles to compose himself, but it’s no use; great wracking sobs shake him, and he leans helplessly into my arms. All I can do is hold him and pat his back ineffectually, and wait for the storm to pass, keeping my own sorrow in check, as I always do; and when it eases he mutters gruffly, ‘I’m sorry,’ his mouth muffled against my shoulder. ‘You must think me very foolish.’

 

‘I don’t.’ My own eyes burn. ‘I think you’re very fortunate.’  
Puzzled, he raises his head and looks at me. ‘How so?’  
‘To be able to do this,’ I say. ‘To weep, to let your sorrow go, to share it and ease your heart…’  
My voice wavers, despite myself.  
‘Arthur never weeps,’ he says softly. ‘How I envied you that strength.’ He reaches up to touch my cheek, with such tenderness it unmans me.

His fingers are still cold; and they come away wet.

‘I never thought of it as a burden,’ he murmurs, and he reaches up and kisses my mouth, and suddenly it is too great for me to bear, and my tears overflow and now I am the one shaking with sobs, and my brother, my love, my dearest friend, reaches out to share my burden...

~~~~~~

The longhouse is very quiet with only two of us.

 

We lie together in my bed, naked and entwined, and Kai’s hands are warm at last, and so is my heart.


End file.
